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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22459243">The Richie Problem</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookinit/pseuds/bookinit'>bookinit</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Deadlights (IT), Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, The Kissing Bridge (IT), Time Travel Fix-It</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-01-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-01-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 17:08:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,488</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22459243</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookinit/pseuds/bookinit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Richie was not soft, or sweet. He didn’t wear golden ankle bracelets that flashed in the sun when he walked. But he was brave, and he was kind, beneath all his bullshit. He was funny as hell when he wasn’t trying too hard (although Eddie would never admit it). He didn’t make Eddie feel like he was floating on a bed of fuzzy feelings, or whatever. </p>
<p>He made Eddie feel alive, like a spark that just needed to be lit into a flame. He made Eddie want to be more like him — brave, and brash, and not giving a fuck what anyone thinks. He was absolutely infuriating, but in the best way. </p>
<p>And he gave Eddie those goddamn butterflies every time. </p>
<p>So, in essence, that was The Richie Problem. </p>
<p>Love. </p>
<p>(the worst disease of them all.)</p>
<p>***<br/>aka; young Eddie gets a glimpse of the future. He has some thoughts.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>246</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>time travel time</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Richie Problem</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi guys! I’m honestly really excited to post this, I’ve been working on it for a while and I’m pretty attached to it at this point haha. This originated from 1) My need for more Eddie POV fics and 2) My need for fics where Eddie sees Richie’s reaction to his death. I’m not sure why, but after searching obsessively for these type of fics and not finding enough of them, I decided to make my own. I definitely worked on this way too slowly (a turtle’s pace, you could say ;)) so hopefully this has some semblance of plot and isn’t just a bunch of jumbled scenes lol. Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There’s a single bead of sweat running down Eddie’s forehead. It had started as perspiration at his hairline, beading up into something more concrete as he exerted himself further. Right now, it’s dangerously close to the edge of his eyebrow, threatening to fall directly on his eye. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Are there any eye infections you can get from sweat? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eddie quickly runs through the list in his mind (keratitis, endophthalmitis, conjunctivitis) and comes up short. Of course, that didn’t mean that there was an eye disease he hadn’t heard of yet, looming over him like a dark cloud. He would have to go to the library later and research it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, there was the more pressing issue of the leper fumbling along behind him, pigeon-toed footsteps thudding against the shabby concrete. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This wasn’t the first time Eddie had seen the leper this summer, and he was certain it wouldn’t be the last. At this point, it was almost old news, a familiar routine — run away, take a few hits of asthma medicine (water with camphor water with camphor </span>
  <em>
    <span>water with camph-) </span>
  </em>
  <span>and thoroughly disinfect his entire body afterwards. The leper, while disease-ridden and filthy, was quite slow, and Eddie was a decent runner despite his asthma (most likely because the asthma didn’t exist, but Eddie didn’t like to think about that).</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You want a blow job, kid?” The leper grins, a horrible sight with no teeth and bleeding, gingivitis-ridden gums. Eddie grits his teeth and looks away, jogging slightly faster. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll do it for a dime, Eddie! For you, I’ll even do it for free. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” The shambling footsteps quicken in pace, and for the first time that morning, true fear creeps into Eddie’s heart. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie didn’t know how It had found out about his... </span>
  <em>
    <span>disease. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Or, more accurately, what Eddie liked to call ‘The Richie Problem,’ capital letters and all. He guessed It had found out Eddie’s problem the same way It found out everything else — by peering straight into Eddie’s soul and dumping out its contents. The leper hadn’t mentioned anything about Richie yet — thank God for small mercies — but Eddie figures it’s only a matter of time before It exploits his darkest secret. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Richie Problem was like this. Eddie had always paid more attention to Richie than anyone else, at first because he was annoying as fuck, and later because they were best friends. Two peas in a pod. Richie and Eddie. But as they grew up, and their group expanded to include Bill, and then Stan, and then Ben and Mike, Eddie realized that he wasn’t interested in girls the same way they were. He barely ever even thought about girls, other than a vague appreciation of their general cleanliness and personal hygiene, which was objectively much better than most boys their age. On the day Beverly joined their group, Eddie was certain. He didn’t like girls. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sure, he liked them fine as friends, and certainly Bev was one of the best friends he had. But romantically? It just ... wasn’t there. Every boy in the Loser’s Club seemed to be obsessed with Beverly in some fashion, talking about her hair or her jewelry or her lips. It was almost as if a wild gazelle had wandered into their midst, and the boys were wildlife explorers observing in awe, too nervous to make a move. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie thought Beverly was cool, and brave. He didn’t like that she smoked, making his throat close up and his nostrils sting, but nobody’s perfect, right? Beverly didn’t take any bullshit, and always spoke her mind. So sure, Eddie liked her just fine. But not the way the other boys liked her. And definitely not the same way he liked Richie. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie wasn’t exactly sure when it had started happening, that Richie made his heart pound and his face heat. At first, Eddie had believed he was coming down with something, possibly the flu or hay fever. He would rush home after hanging out with Richie and pour over his mother’s medical terminology books, looking frantically for a disease that gave you butterflies in your stomach and flutters in your heart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was around this same time that Eddie started hanging out with Ben more, one of the only Losers that his mom approved of, on account of him being such an </span>
  <em>
    <span>“upstanding young man.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Now, Ben was a great kid. He was always thoughtful, and made sure Eddie had his inhaler and medications on him at all times, just in case. He read a lot, and spoke only when he needed to, which was, at times, a welcome change of pace from being around Richie (who Sonia Kaspbrack hated most of all, and wouldn’t let within ten feet of the front door, thought that he was “corrupting her son,” whatever that meant). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ben was also, as everyone knew, crazy about Bev. He was considerate about it, though, and didn’t talk about her like he was foaming at the mouth; never once referred to her in a vulgar or crude manner. He kept his love stowed away in his heart, cared for and protected. Eddie, more than anything, respected that about him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One evening, when Ben was over at Eddie’s house catching up on summer reading, Eddie had wondered about the love Ben felt. More accurately, he had wondered why he </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>feel it, when practically everyone else did. Eddie glanced at Ben, whose brow was furrowed in sincere concentration, face barely visible behind thick yellowed pages, and thought that if anyone knew the answer, it would be him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Ben?” Ben glanced up, settling his book in his lap to give Eddie his full attention. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re in love with Beverly.” Eddie said it gently, respectfully. It wasn’t a question. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ben blushed to the tips of his ears, but still nodded. That’s the thing about Ben — he was always honest, to himself and to others. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie sat up a little. He tried to think of something to say, something to express what he was feeling. But how do you say ‘I don’t know why everyone likes girls so much when I don’t want to date any of them and they’re not attractive to me? But anyways when I’m around Richie my heartbeat speeds up and it feels like there’s a whole swarm of bees in my stomach. I think I’m dying but I don’t know what the cause is; I’ve researched a shit ton of diseases and this doesn’t match up to any of them.’ How do you say that when you aren’t even sure how to explain what you’re feeling, when you don’t even know what it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anyways, what Eddie ended up saying was, “Why?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ben smiled, the corners of his lips curving softly. “Why do I love her, you mean?” Eddie nodded, terrified of the answer in a way he didn’t quite understand. Ben sighed, a wistful look in his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She’s so beautiful, and so brave. Her hair is so pretty, and I really like the bracelets she wears. She wore this golden ankle bracelet one time that-” Ben cut himself off, blushing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But she isn’t afraid of what anyone thinks of her, and she came up and talked to me even when everyone else was making fun of me. She stands up for everyone, and she’s just the best person I’ve ever met.” Ben looked off into the distance, still smiling. “Bev makes me want to be a better person. She makes me want to be brave.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie’s smiling too now, Ben’s genuine happiness and love spreading into his soul, warming his bones. Why had Eddie been scared of what Ben was going to say? His feelings were wonderful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ben looks at him now, laughing a little. “And, ya know, I guess I love her because of all the typical stuff everyone talks about. Butterflies in my stomach, it feels like. Almost like they’re gonna fly right out.” And then Ben goes straight back to his book, completely and blissfully unaware that he’s just changed the course of Eddie’s life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie was not soft, or sweet. He didn’t wear golden ankle bracelets that flashed in the sun when he walked. But he was brave, and he was kind, beneath all his bullshit. He was funny as hell when he wasn’t trying too hard (although Eddie would never admit it). He didn’t make Eddie feel like he was floating on a bed of fuzzy feelings, or whatever. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He made Eddie feel alive, like a spark that just needed to be lit into a flame. He made Eddie want to be more like him — brave, and brash, and not giving a fuck what anyone thinks. He was absolutely infuriating, but in the best way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he gave Eddie those goddamn butterflies every time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, in essence, that was The Richie Problem. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Love. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(the worst disease of them all.)</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie was almost home. He knew from experience that the leper wouldn’t follow him into his house (for what reason, Eddie wasn’t sure. Maybe even It was scared of facing Sonia Kaspbrak’s wrath). So there he was, almost home free and safe. He could already practically taste the disinfectant cloths (but not really, that would be disgusting). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What Eddie wasn’t expecting, however, was the broken beer bottle in his path, thrown out by Mr. Marsh earlier that day in an episodic fit of drunken rage. Instead, Eddie, feet flying at the speed of light and premature confidence of a successful escape in his heart, slipped heel first on the bottle, causing him to fall back on the concrete with a deafening </span>
  <em>
    <span>crack</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The street around him fades away, and all Eddie can focus on is the leper, finally catching up to him, mutilated flesh and pigeon-toed, bandaged feet shuffling into view. Eddie still can’t find it in him to be properly scared, or feel any emotion, really, other than a haze of confusion and dizziness (this is definitely due to the concussion he just acquired). He probably should be more scared, though, considering he’s about to die. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The last thing he remembers seeing is a trio of blinding white lights, circling him until they close in. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The first thing Eddie sees, bizarrely, is the Kissing Bridge. The second thing he sees is Richie, no more than a silhouette crouched in the distance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The relief that comes over him is palpable. It had just been another bad dream, then. Or maybe a daydream? He doesn’t remember how he got here; hadn’t had any plans to go visit the Kissing Bridge or even anywhere close. If he was blacking out and having dreams while walking, that wasn’t good at all. Could be a sign of sleep deprivation, or something even worse. Maybe Eddie should ask Mr. Keene for more medication, although he would never in a million years admit that he was having weird visions in the middle of the day. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once Eddie has that all sorted out, he takes in his surroundings. He doesn’t remember how he got here or why, but he’ll make the best of it regardless. At least Richie is here. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Why </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>Richie here?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie squints to get a better look. Richie’s squatting on the bridge, a carving knife in his hand. There’s a look of intense concentration on his face, which Eddie rarely sees except when they’re doing homework together (and barely even then). It’s too far away to tell, but it looks like Richie’s beginning to shape out letters on the wood. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh. Oh, okay. So Richie’s got a crush on someone, then. And he... didn’t tell Eddie? Eddie feels a little pathetic, blindsided by the thought of Richie liking a girl. Maybe even dating, sometime in the future. And it’s like — Eddie knew, okay. He’s not an idiot. He knew that Richie wasn’t like him, didn’t have the same disease that made him feel inappropriate thoughts about his best friend. Richie’s always making jokes about fucking girls and </span>
  <em>
    <span>your mom</span>
  </em>
  <span> and vaginas, and whatever, ha ha, it’s a real fucking riot (not). But everyone knows that Richie’s never done any of that stuff, never even had a girlfriend. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eddie</span>
  </em>
  <span> knows this because Richie told him once, late one night. Confessed, “Girls kinda scare me, man,” and never brought it up again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Is Eddie naive for thinking that Richie tells him everything? That they’re best friends? And sure, okay, Eddie has his secrets too. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Obviously</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But for some reason, he never pictured Richie having his own. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At least he knows now, can make fun of Richie’s stupid crush while pretending his heart isn’t snapping into a million fucking pieces. Sure, Eddie, good plan. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He cups his hands around his mouth, a makeshift megaphone. “Hey dickwad! Those better not be my mom’s fucking initials!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And waits. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s no response. Richie doesn’t even look up, doesn’t move a single muscle. It’s like he didn’t even hear him. Inexplicably, a feeling of dread runs through Eddie’s body. He shakes it off. Probably too far away, that’s all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie jogs lightly up to the bridge until he’s standing only a few feet away from Richie. Concerningly, Richie doesn’t look up at all to indicate he sees Eddie coming. There’s no, “Hey, Eds,” or “Eddie Spaghetti, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hey!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>or even, “Back off, asshole.” It’s like Eddie’s fucking invisible. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...Rich? Can you hear me?” Eddie’s trembling now, the feeling of dread now a full-body state of terror. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No response. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His feet feeling like they weigh approximately ten million pounds each, Eddie slowly walks towards Richie. Ten torturous steps. One. Two. Three. Four. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie looks happy. He looks like he’s in love. His fingers are trembling slightly where they grip the knife. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Five. Six. Seven. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie glances quickly behind him, almost like he’s afraid of being watched or seen. His careful gaze passes right through Eddie. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eight. Nine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie places a shaking hand on Richie’s shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ten. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hand falls right through. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie looks at his hand, glowing with a whitish-blue light, then at the carving. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>R + </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t see the rest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(he feels like it was important, though.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>What Eddie sees, instead, is a couch. A very fancy couch, nicer than he’s ever seen. It’s blue, and has an elegant gold trim on the arms and cushions. He fucking hates it. What an ugly piece of shit. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie looks from the ugly, expensive couch to the ugly, expensive apartment he’s wound up standing in. Just for shits and giggles, he gingerly touches the arm of the couch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or tries to, anyways. Okay. This is how it is, whatever the fuck is happening. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie tries to get his bearings (as much as he can, anyways, when he’s being thrown throughout time and space and whatnot). He doesn’t recognize the apartment. It’s not anyone’s house that he knows, or even a house that he’s been in before. In fact, he barely even recognizes the objects in the house. Everything looks sleek and shiny and hi-tech and </span>
  <em>
    <span>holy shit, </span>
  </em>
  <span>is that a </span>
  <em>
    <span>television</span>
  </em>
  <span> on the wall?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A loud sob pierces through his thoughts. Eddie startles, jumping about a foot in the air. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello?” he tries, even though he’s fairly certain they won’t be able to hear him. “Um, if you can hear me, I didn’t mean to break into your house. Sorry?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie is a fucking idiot. He’s jumping around time and space in a weird vision probably caused by It (is Eddie even alive right now? holy shit he didn’t even think about that) and he’s most likely in the fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>future </span>
  </em>
  <span>and here he is trying to apologize for breaking and entering. Nice one, Eddie. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Since there’s no answer, and Eddie can conceivably do whatever the fuck he wants, he wanders the hallways to find the source of the crying. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The source, it turns out, comes from a small bedroom that is equally as ugly as the rest of the house, and weirdly... sparse. Impersonal. Like no one lives there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Except, someone obviously did, because there was a large burrito-shaped lump under the covers. Eddie almost would have found it funny, if it wasn’t obvious that this burrito-shaped lump was having a fucking terrible time. The burrito-shaped lump also had curly brown hair (its only discerning feature) sticking out the top that looked frighteningly familiar. Eddie takes a sharp breath in. Looks around. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s dozens of beer bottles strewn around the ground, along with half-full Chinese takeaway containers and used tissues. Small hitching sobs come periodically from the burrito on the bed. Eddie really </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> fucking hopes that burrito isn’t who he thinks (</span>
  <em>
    <span>knows) </span>
  </em>
  <span>it is. Because. Well. He really didn’t age well, did he? Or, you know, maybe he’s just going through a tough time right now. Eddie’s not gonna judge, especially if it’s</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Richie?” The Richie-burrito doesn’t move. Eddie didn’t expect it to, anyways. He slowly moves to the side of the bed to see Richie’s face (because it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>Richie, of course it is, Eddie knows it in his bones, would know Richie anywhere) and holy </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie looks like shit. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, objectively, he’s stupidly handsome, even more than he was as a kid. His jawline’s squared out and he’s got </span>
  <em>
    <span>stubble </span>
  </em>
  <span>which does dumb things to Eddie’s stomach but that’s not the point. Richie looks like he’s been hit by a bus, both physically and mentally. He’s got cuts and scars all over, some still fresh with blood. His eyes are puffy, like he’s been crying nonstop for days (he probably has, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>why?</span>
  </em>
  <span>). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Richie,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Eddie whispers, stricken. He hovers a hand around the perimeter of Richie’s face; knows he can’t touch but wanting to do something to take away the pain. He wishes he could. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie knows, with a striking clarity, that he’s looking twenty-seven years in the future. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Did they </span>
  <em>
    <span>lose?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The thought strikes Eddie with fear, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest. Eddie closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. </span>
  <em>
    <span>In. Out. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He thinks back to Richie coaching him though asthma attacks, hands on his shoulders and voice calm and steady. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You can do this, Eds. You’re okay. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eddie looks at the man in front of him, battered and bruised and heartbroken but still </span>
  <em>
    <span>Richie</span>
  </em>
  <span> and sends a quick ‘thank you’ to whatever God or higher power is out there because Richie is </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Living and breathing, no matter what happened with It. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie immediately feels guilty because he doesn’t know what’s happened to the others; any one of them could be dead and Eddie hadn’t even spared them a second thought. In fact, someone’s bound to be dead, with the way Richie is carrying on. Richie looks like he’s lost </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Maybe he has. Maybe they’re all dead and Richie’s the only one left. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Survivor’s guilt,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eddie thinks numbly, a term he read once in an old psychology textbook of his mother’s. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie’s broken out of his thoughts by a sharp ringing coming from the bed. Richie shrugs out of his blanket-burrito and fumbles a hand around the mattress, searching for something. When he finds the source of the sound — a slim rectangular black object — Eddie isn’t entirely sure what it is. He watches, a little dumbfounded, as Richie taps the screen and holds the object to his ear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bill?” Richie’s voice croaks out shakily. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie’s first thought is </span>
  <em>
    <span>what the actual fuck, thats a telephone? </span>
  </em>
  <span>and his second, more important thought, is </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bill’s alive, too. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not that Eddie had ever doubted him — Bill was their leader, fearless in a way that Eddie wished he could be. If anyone could face Pennywise as an adult and come out alive, it was Big Bill. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie can barely hear Bill’s voice, small and tinny coming out of the phone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey Richie. How are you holding up?” Eddie notes right away that his stutter is gone, his voice sounding strong and mature and </span>
  <em>
    <span>adult</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie takes a moment to wipe the tears off his cheeks with the back of his hand. He takes a shaky breath, eyes flitting briefly to the ceiling before settling on a random spot on the wall. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know me, Big Bill. I’m absolutely peachy.” Richie has never looked less </span>
  <em>
    <span>peachy</span>
  </em>
  <span> in his entire life, the fucking liar. “What is this, my weekly therapy call? Your turn, huh? You draw the short straw or something?” The line of Richie’s mouth hardens as he picks at a stray thread on his blanket. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know we’re only calling because we care about you, Rich. We’re worried.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Okay, so more of them made it out alive. That’s good. Great, even. But Eddie looks at Richie’s tear-streaked face and knows deep in his bones that something is </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He waits for the other shoe to drop. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a brief pause, Bill obviously waiting for Richie to respond. When it becomes clear that he’s not going to, Bill continues, </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The funeral’s next week.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And there it is. The other shoe. The funeral. (The </span>
  <em>
    <span>funeral.</span>
  </em>
  <span>) Eddie feels moisture on his cheek and dazedly lifts up his hand to wipe it off. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>funeral. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie had considered, in an off-hand way, that not all of them might make it out alive. But it had always seemed so impossible when they had all survived so much and were just fine. But this was their future, smacking him in the face. The fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>funeral</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Detached, Eddie wonders who it is. Who faced Pennywise and didn’t live to tell the tale. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(It’s you you’re not good enough you’re not brave enough you’re not strong enough it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie lets out a quiet sob, covering his mouth with his hand. He squeezes his eyes shut. “We don’t even have a body, Bill. We don’t — he’s still down there.” Richie looks destroyed at the thought. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a pause. A moment of silence (respect for the dead). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eddie would have wanted you to come, Rich.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>you.</span>
  </em>
  <span>)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie gets no warning before he’s thrown into the sewers, smelling like rot and millions of liters of greywater, dark and foreboding in a way that immediately chills him to the bone. Before he even processes what’s happening, he knows immediately that this is where he dies. It’s a simple fact, settling deeply into his bones — </span>
  <em>
    <span>Your name is Eddie Kaspbrack. You spent your summer fighting a shapeshifting clown. This is where he kills you, twenty-seven years from now. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie really hasn’t had much time to process the fact that he’s dead — or </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>be, in the future — but he feels surprisingly okay with it. Everyone dies, eventually; honestly, Eddie’s surprised he would live long enough to grow into an adult. Eddie had always worried, privately, that even if It didn’t kill him, he would be wiped out by some horrible disease lurking in the shadows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But here they are, in the sewers. Eddie sees them now — the Losers club, adult edition, himself included. Everyone looks more or less the same, and the Richie he saw earlier is present and accounted for, looking significantly more put together. There’s Bill, and Mike, and Bev, looking beautiful as ever, and a guy Eddie can’t quite recognize, except — holy shit is that </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ben?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Good for him. Like, seriously. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wow.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie examines his own body, still irritatingly short (there goes the growth spurt he’d been hoping for), and still obviously worried, scared shitless. It’s all in the eyes, really (for a split second, Eddie sees himself in the reflection of his own iris, and isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> a trip and a half). But this is it, really. This is all Eddie’s ever going to be, before he kicks the bucket. This is the oldest Eddie that will ever exist. What a fucking disappointment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s no Stan. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a second, Eddie squeezes his eyes shut. It’s too much all of a sudden, the death and despair and fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>desolate</span>
  </em>
  <span> future they have in store. He thinks for a second that maybe, just maybe, this is just a bad dream he’s having, passed out on the sidewalk. Any second now, he could wake up and forget any of this ever happened. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Except Eddie knows, more than anything, that that’s not true. There’s no point in lying to himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He watches, heart heavy, as the Losers try to fight. On a regular day, seeing It as a giant metamorphic spider would had been enough to make Eddie hurl, but this was not a regular day. In fact, Eddie was not sure this was any kind of day at all — just Eddie, being flung around the space-time continuum like a used dog toy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then Richie gets caught in the deadlights. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie’s head pounds for a second upon seeing the lights, circling wildly and glowing at a steady, pulsing rhythm. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This is how you got here</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks, and remembers a flash of blinding white light, sharp rows of teeth. He shakes his head to clear the memory. He can’t think about that right now, not when he doesn’t even know where </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span> is. Probably hell, to be honest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If this is Pennywise’s own, twisted version of hell, then he’s done a great fucking job. Eddie can’t think of anything worse than seeing Richie in pain, seeing Richie tortured. And that’s exactly what’s happening right now, because </span>
  <em>
    <span>Richie is in the fucking deadlights. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie’s whole body vibrates with the need to run to Richie, to try and help him. He knows he can’t, that he only plays the part of an observer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Older Eddie, though? That’s a different story. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Time seems to slow to a grinding halt. Eddie stares at his older counterpart, at the spear in his hand. His heart beats in his throat, a constant thrum of </span>
  <em>
    <span>come on come on help him </span>
  </em>
  <span>please </span>
  <em>
    <span>help him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Older Eddie looks at the spear. He swallows hard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie can see the exact moment that his resolve settles, a look of fierce determination on his face that he almost doesn’t recognize. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somehow, Eddie knows what’s going to happen before it does. He’s struck with an awful sort of precognition, a bone-deep feeling that </span>
  <em>
    <span>this is it.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The world feels like it’s moving at the speed of molasses, but it’s still too fast. Eddie can’t change anything. He can only watch helplessly as his older self and Richie curl around each other in a tender moment of hope and safety. Eddie knows that it won’t last, can see It’s expression of rage, then the impending talon hurtling towards them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t stop him from flinching when it rips through his stomach like he’s made of fucking paper maché. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie isn’t watching himself, though. He’s watching Richie, splattered with blood, eyes wide and absolutely devastated. Eddie can feel the tears running down his cheek, but doesn’t move to wipe them away. He’s powerless to move, to do anything besides watch the scene unfolding before him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a split second, It’s head turns to Eddie, staring straight at him. It’s mouth doesn’t move, but he hears the words all the same. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>This is your future, Eddie. This is what becomes of you. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie stares straight back at It. He isn’t afraid, honestly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He died to save Richie’s life, after all. He can’t think of any better cause.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie’s still in the same place, but he’s instantly aware that a few minutes have passed. It’s gone, for one thing. Pennywise, the fucking bastard, probably hadn’t wanted Eddie to see how the Losers had defeated him (but he had an idea, anyways). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For another thing, Old Eddie is slouched against a wall, knocking on death’s door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie looks scared out of his mind, desperately holding his jacket to Eddie’s stomach to try and stop the blood flow (Eddie appreciates the effort, but it’s really not helping. Blood is fucking</span>
  <em>
    <span> everywhere</span>
  </em>
  <span>). He’s mumbling a stream of nonsense, a string of “You’re okay it’s okay Eds, I’m gonna get you out of here—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Old Eddie looks at Richie with an expression Eddie recognizes instantly. It’s what he likes to call The Richie Look, capital letters and all. It’s a mix of fondness and love, two emotions that Eddie associates solely with Richie (now and forever, apparently). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The look catches Richie’s gaze, stretches and holds for a long moment. Old Eddie opens his mouth, pauses. For a second, Eddie half-expects a dying love confession (and how cliché would </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> be?). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But because he’s Eddie Kaspbrack, a fucking coward, his last words are, of course, “I fucked your mom.” How poetic. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He supposes it is a love confession of sorts (him and Richie had always had their own language, after all). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And that’s it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Or Eddie thinks it is, anyways. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What he doesn’t count on is Richie’s reaction. Holy </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Holy </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, what the fuck. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie goes absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>feral</span>
  </em>
  <span>, kicking and screaming his heart out, tears steadily running down his face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie watches in concern. “Richie, get </span>
  <em>
    <span>out </span>
  </em>
  <span>of here, what the fuck,” he tries uselessly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s sweet, honestly, that Richie doesn’t want to leave him down in the sewers, but Eddie’s fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It doesn’t matter if he sits down there with the filth and the germs and the </span>
  <em>
    <span>dirt </span>
  </em>
  <span>(okay, it does. It makes Eddie’s skin crawl just thinking about it), but Richie would </span>
  <em>
    <span>die</span>
  </em>
  <span> if he stayed down there with him. He would die, doesn’t he know that? Doesn’t he </span>
  <em>
    <span>understand?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eddie couldn’t take it if Richie died too, he would rather kill himself —</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Holy fuck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe Richie does understand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie watches Richie, specifically his eyes and the emotions behind them (because maybe, just maybe, Richie has an Eddie Look, too). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In that moment, it clicks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks back to the Kissing Bridge, to the mystery inscription, and thinks that maybe he doesn’t need to see it to know what it says. Really, doesn’t he already know whose initial lies next to Richie’s immortalized in aging wood? Whose heart has always belonged to him, no matter how much he wished sometimes that it didn’t?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(because Eddie would rather die than live without Richie, and maybe Richie would do the same.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie is encapsulated in darkness, a sucking vortex of cold and terror. He can feel the presence of It, surrounding him, inside of him, crawling up his throat and out his mouth, in his mind and soul, greedy for more. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Your future is inevitable, Eddie. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am inevitable. The eater of worlds</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, closes his eyes. He’s never felt more hatred in his life than he does right now, for this </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing</span>
  </em>
  <span> that ripped him away from his friends and his life, this </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing</span>
  </em>
  <span> that took away his childhood </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span> his future. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks about Richie, love in his eyes and devastation in his soul, reaching out to his dead body like it was the only thing that mattered in his entire fucking life. Like </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eddie </span>
  </em>
  <span>was the only thing that mattered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks of Richie, gangly legs tangling with his in the too-small hammock, smirking at him over the latest issue of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Superman</span>
  </em>
  <span>, making his heart beat faster and his face heat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks of the Kissing Bridge, of the inscription he never saw but still knows, deep down, what it says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>R + E</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gathers up all the courage he possesses in his measly body, cupping his hands around his mouth as a makeshift megaphone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Inevitable? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck that! </span>
  </em>
  <span>I make my own future, you stupid fucking clown!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(and this time, he’ll do it right.)</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He wakes up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wakes up, and sees Richie hovering over him, concerned expression firmly in place, a halo of sun lighting up his soft curls. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie’s never seen anything more beautiful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Richie sees that he’s up, the concern is instantly covered up by bravado and a bright smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eds! For a second there, I thought I was gonna be carrying your tiny ass to the hospital. You were dead meat, man.” Richie runs a hand through his hair (its shaking) and chuckles a little. He stares at Eddie, obviously expecting an answer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie doesn’t have one to give. He’s too busy cataloguing the emotions in Richie’s eyes, the tender lift to his voice on the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eds, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and kicking himself for not seeing this sooner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie pauses, looking a little taken aback at the lack of response, and nervously breaks Eddie’s gaze, staring determinedly somewhere in the middle distance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, in case you hit your head so hard you got fucking brain damage, I’ll remind you. You were being chased by that ugly-ass leper hobo thing, or whatever, and I was on my way to see you, to show you the new Marvel comic — just came out yesterday, I had to mow my folk’s lawn for a dime to buy it — and I saw you, my poor little Eddie Spaghetti, all helpless and in danger,” Richie pauses his ramble to take a breath, still not looking at him, “and me being the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hero</span>
  </em>
  <span> that I am,” Richie puffs up his chest and puts on a deep voice, “I swooped in to save the day, of course. I just yelled at that stupid fucking clown until he backed off, and then —”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie stops listening. Richie’s smiling as he retells the story, coming to life and lighting up and just being so </span>
  <em>
    <span>Richie</span>
  </em>
  <span> that it hurts. Eddie doesn’t want to wait anymore. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He grabs Richie’s shirt collar and pulls him down in a kiss, right there in the middle of the street. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not much of a kiss, really — Eddie’s never kissed anyone before, doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing — but it’s wonderful all the same, because he’s kissing </span>
  <em>
    <span>Richie</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he tastes like bubblegum and Coca-Cola. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They pull away after a second, Richie’s eyes wide under his thick glasses. For a few moments, they just breathe each other in, foreheads barely touching. Eddie’s pretty sure he has The Richie Look plastered all over his face, but for once it’s okay, because Richie has a matching look in his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So was that a thank-you kiss for me saving your ass, or...?” Richie grins down at him, disbelief still clear in his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie just laughs, and pulls him down for another kiss. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I still don’t know why we have to go all the way to the Kissing Bridge,” Richie mutters from his position behind Eddie, who was a couple feet in front of him, pulling him along by their interlocked hands. “I mean, you could just doodle Mr.Tozier on your notebooks. Or we could carve out our names on that tree behind your house.” He pauses, grinning. “It might break Mrs.K’s heart, though, to learn that I’m cheating on her behind her back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie just grins and tugs on Richie’s hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, Rich, we’re almost there. And it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>romantic</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Eddie’s been solidly pretending he doesn’t know why Richie’s so dead-set against going to the bridge, why he’s tried suggesting everything else under the sun to avoid Eddie seeing his carving. And it’s okay, really — Eddie’s learned so much more about Richie in the last few weeks they’d been together, one of the key things being his embarrassment regarding his years-long crush on Eddie. Even though Eddie’s reassured him that he liked him for just as long, there’s no way to prove it, really. And Richie’s carving — well, that’s solid evidence of his time spent pining away for Eddie during their friendship. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, to be honest, Eddie has his own reasons for going to the bridge, even if he disguised it as a fun, romantic activity for the two of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They step up to the bridge and Eddie is struck with the image of Richie carving their initials with trembling hands, love in his eyes. Eddie’s eyes immediately zero in on the spot where the carving is, but he pretends not to notice it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, he and Richie wander around the bridge, Eddie trying to pretend he’s looking for the perfect spot to carve their names. Richie seems to be vibrating with pent-up energy next to him, opening and closing his mouth like he desperately wants to say something but isn’t quite sure how. Eddie gives him a few more minutes, pulling him to spots that deliberately avoid the carving, hemming and hawing like he’s trying to evaluate the quality of the wood or some shit like that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually Richie stops, looking Eddie in the eye. “Look, Eds... this is really embarrassing, but I actually, um, already carved our initials. Like, before we were dating.” His cheeks burn as he kneels down, pointing out the very spot that Eddie has been acutely aware of this whole time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie kneels down next to him, clasping their hands together. “That’s not embarrassing at all, Rich. I liked you before we started dating, too. Actually, um,” he pauses, takes a deep breath. Looks at </span>
  <em>
    <span>R + E</span>
  </em>
  <span>, gathers his courage. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re braver than you think</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks. He has no idea where the thought came from (except it kind of sounds like Richie, and he might have an idea). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you, Richie. I always have.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie’s entire expression lights up, and he smiles brightly. “I love you too, Eds. Always.” He pulls him into a tight hug, and if both their eyes mist over, neither of them mention it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They go over the carving together, Eddie’s small hand resting over Richie’s larger one. He makes a promise in the wood, ingrained in the bridge that started it all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie thinks of their future that he saw, and the future they could have. He thinks of how Richie scared away the leper when he was brave and protecting Eddie, how Eddie escaped the deadlights by gathering his courage and calling It a “stupid fucking clown.” He thinks of the adult Losers club, how they defeated It even when they were down two members. He thinks of Stan, and himself, and how they fought through their fears, even when everything seemed hopeless. He thinks of Richie screaming his name, crying in his room. Most of all he thinks of the bravery all of them had, that all of them still have. The Losers club, bonded together forever. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie has hope. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The future isn’t inevitable, after all. He’s already changed it, just by being brave and kissing Richie. There’s nothing stopping Eddie from living the life he deserves, not really. Not It, not his mother, not even his fears (he thinks he might have less of them, now. he likes the feeling of being brave). The future isn’t inevitable; its constantly shifting, changing every day, with every choice he makes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And now, he knows exactly how to make the right ones. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie glances over at Richie, brow furrowed in concentration as he carves the curve of the R, and loves him so much his heart hurts. He’ll keep loving him, for the rest of his life, however long he gets this time around. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks that The Richie Problem isn’t so much of a problem anymore. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(it never was, really.)</span>
</p>
<p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Whoo! This was definitely a challenging fic for me to write, it was a lot longer than I usually write and had a more complicated plot, but I’m pretty proud of how it turned out. I genuinely love these characters so much, I actually cried when writing Eddie’s death scene (the sad music I was listening to probably didn’t help lol). Let me know what you thought! Comments, kudos, and constructive criticism are all welcome :)</p>
<p>- H</p></blockquote></div></div>
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